Ashes
by SomethinaboutMarco
Summary: They were the remnants of an old world, time leaving them fractured and scattered to the wind. Following the war with Homeworld, the Earth is a shadow of its former self, its inhabitants struggling to survive, and it's saviors nowhere to be found. However, when rumors of a shadow in the East begin to spread, old companions will need to band together to face the coming dark.
1. The Priest

A/N: This is a very…different story. One I would have never thought would come to fruition in a million years. Yet, here it is, in all its convoluted glory. The idea came to me one day in a history class, and it's been bouncing around my head ever since. Hopefully its enjoyable, as it's rid me of the massive writer's block I've had for my other story. Feedback is deeply appreciated.

. . . . . .

He often reminisced about the times before he took up the cloth.

Those dark, demented days in which he indulged himself in the deep, endless pleasure of sin.

Back then, when the world was crumbling and people had lost all hope of salvation. He remembered his life before the collapse, but nothing much after. When he fell into that void, minutes blended into days, and he lost all sense of time. Only when he found himself half-dead on the Bishop's steps did he begin to retain his memory.

He'd like to think he'd redeemed himself; he provided a vital need for the people of the small town he now inhabited. It wasn't something physical, or tangible, such as food or silver, but it was a nourishment that filled their entire being, and helped them strive down a path towards tomorrow.

Still, old habits die hard.

As he poured the amber liquid in the clouded crystal glass, he offered the fidgeting man sitting in front of him the bottle.

"Sure you don't want any?" he grunted, meeting the man's eyes. "Helps settle the nerves, which seems like something you need right now." He added, offering the man a wide grin, arm extending towards him.

A small smile formed on the man's lips as he coughed out a nervous chuckle. "No thank you Father, I've sworn off the sauce for good. Scatters the brain, you know?" He laughed again while gently rubbing his neck, eyes averting the priest's gaze.

A minute frown creased his brow. "Allen, please. I've asked you several times not to call me that. It's not Father, or Priest, it's just Bill." The frown disappeared, replaced with a small, but reassuring smile. "There's no need for such formalities, we've been friends for years."

Allen nodded apprehensively. "Of course Fath- I mean Bill." He said, correcting himself.

Sighing, Bill knocked back his glass, the burning sensation spilling over his tongue and down his throat, final settling deep in his belly. "God that's good." He coughed out. "Nothing like the old stuff, but it gets the job done, eh?"

Allen only nodded.

Bill sighed, his brief respite from the world now over.

"Right, so down to business." He muttered, shifting to open a drawer in the center of the desk.

"How long has she shown symptoms?" He asked, reaching into the interior space and pulling out the necessary equipment; the 'Tools of Salvation', he jokingly referred to them as.

Allen began to fidget once again, fear becoming more apparent the longer he spoke. "It's been about a week now Bill…..It's bad." He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the topic at hand. "The fever, the sweating, the tendency towards violence…. It's all there." He breathed out, shakily running a hand across his shaven head.

"I know I should've come to you sooner… but I just didn't wanna believe that…" Bill held up a hand to stop him, nodding in acceptance. Allen let out anther unsteady breath, relived that Bill hadn't chewed him out for endangering the whole community.

"It's fine Allen, honestly." He began. "The important thing is you came to me before things got out of hand." Bill began to chamber the metallic shells, rotating them with each filled space. The instrument glinted as the evening sunlight seeped through the office blinds, altering his image of Bill and his into something altogether otherworldly.

Truly, Allen believed God walked alongside Bill, guiding him in his practice.

Bill, however, simply himself as an individual who had the strength to do what others couldn't.

Shoving the chamber back into place, Bill made a move for the decanter, plucking off the top and pouring himself another drink. Quickly raising it to his lips and swallowing the burning liquid, he began to stand, holstering his tools and grabbing the long duster that sat on the back of the chair.

"C'mon then," he spoke, adorning his coat and making his way towards the door.

"Let's do this before the buzz wears off."

. . . . . .

The town of Harbor was a small, prosperous city nestled along the base of the Rocky Mountains in the former state of Colorado. Its location, while not necessarily inconspicuous, was just out of the way that it managed to withstand the brunt of the apocalypse.

Bill found it completely by accident, chalking it up to serendipity.

It was during his journey west that he stumbled across the burgeoning settlement; back then the place was nothing but a small hamlet, just a handful of refugee families banding together in an abandoned town. He had planned to stay only a few days, determined to pass through the mountains before the snow fell.

Then, of course, there was the _incident_.

Afterwards, the small community was in awe of him; who was this mysterious stranger from the east that had saved them all?

The rest, they say, is history, and five years later Bill remained, watching over the people of the ever-growing Harbor with care.

It wasn't without trouble though; the local leadership proving to be more of a nuisance over the past several years.

Well, it was really just one individual, if Bill was being honest.

No matter though, he had his duties, and was content to stay within his area of expertise.

Finally arriving at Allen's place, Bill reached into his pocket, and pulled a smoke from its pack and an old flip lighter. Touching the end to the steady flame, he began to pull the smoke into his lungs as he waited patiently for Bill to receive the shed keys from his home.

Deciding to make his way around back, Bill examined the property around the home as he began to move towards the shed. The house itself was in immaculate shape, thanks to the efforts of Allen and his wife, Sarah, who only wanted the absolute best for their children. It was small for a family of five, but it was theirs, and they were happy.

That is, until their youngest became ill.

Maria was an adventurous little girl; beloved by the community for her kind disposition and illustrious story-telling. One could listen to her weave an imaginative tale of distant lands and mighty kingdoms for hours. She had wormed her way into the hearts of even the most jaded individuals in Harbor, Bill being the most recent.

His first interaction with her was by chance, with her walking into his office one day and asking him a simple question.

"Why is your head so shiny?"

Now that caught him off guard.

"Because I'm a mutant." He replied.

She nodded and left

As strange as the whole thing was, he thought that would be the end of it, as most members of the community gave him a wide berth. However, she was back the next day. And the day after that, and the day after that.

She would often stop by his office after her schooling around noon, and simply talk about whatever had struck her fancy that day. If he was honest, it was a little annoying at first, but over time he had slowly come to cherish those small afternoon meetings.

The last time he saw her, she complained about feeling a little under the weather.

Now he knew why.

As Bill stared intently at the large wooden shed that filled the backyard, he heard the door to the house open as Allen stepped out onto the back deck, keys in his shaking hands.

He looked back to him, meeting his eyes and nodding. Allen only gave a slight inclination he noticed as he moved passed Bill, unsteadily trying to find the proper key on the small metal ring.

Grabbing the heavy padlock, Allen began to struggle to insert the key, hands shaking terribly as he tried to calm himself. Bill saw this and moved over to him, placing a firm hand on Allen's shoulder and gently pulling him aside. Allen had tears streaking down his face, eyes locked on the ground. Bill carefully pulled the keys from his hands and turned to the padlock, quickly inserting it and turning the key.

"If you want turn away Al, that would be ok." He said as he looked behind him, to which Allen responded with a stifled sniff.

"No, no Bill, it's fine. I'm her father, I should be there for her." He choked out.

Bill nodded, and turned back to the door, unlocking it and letting the padlock fall to the ground.

"You ready?" he spoke aloud, to which Allen replied with a small grunt.

"Alright then." He said, as he thrust the shed door open.

. . . . . .

A long time ago, in another life, Bill had been a soldier in the army. He had signed up when he was nineteen, just a kid really, and found that he was surprisingly good at it.

He performed so well at his job, in fact, that he began to receive special assignments; top secret missions that were hid from the public eye.

He didn't care though; it wasn't like he was in the business for notoriety.

During his time in the service he saw his fair share of death and destruction. It was the norm for him, and death was no stranger.

When _they_ came, however, everything changed.

The world had rejoiced when first contact was established; the human race was no longer alone in the vast expanse of the galaxy.

Humanity, in all its hopeful naivety, sent a small delegation to meet them in orbit.

The Rocks, in return, sent a plague.

It was unlike anything the world had ever seen, and as it swept through the populace killing billions, those infected began to transform. Their skin began to calcify, crystals began to grow out of their skin, and their brain slowly began to turn into mush. They became increasingly aggressive as their mind succumbed to the Geode Plague, and soon the only vestige of humanity that remained was a primal lust for blood.

The victims soon began to turn on their brethren, spreading the disease with each individual they came into contact with. Luckily, they were easy to kill, the brain continuing to act as the command center for all neurological activity. Still, too many succumbed to the horrifying end, and by the time the Earth's governments had somewhat gained control of the situation, they had an entirely new problem.

The sentient rocks that had engineered it began a ground war against the survivors.

And it was the most depraved brutality Bill had experienced in his entire life.

Warfare on a scale never before imagined against a species that was made from the very same material they walked upon. Billions more died in the conflict, and as the war drove on, the human race was pushed to the edge of extinction.

However, when all hope was lost, salvation came in the form of a young man with a gemstone stuck in his bellybutton, and a small group of rebel Gems.

They petitioned the government for a small strike force and space-flight able ship, stating that they themselves where the only thing capable of defeating the invading armada.

Long story short, Bill was picked to accompany them on their mission to the mothership.

The horrors he saw in that place were…. indescribable…. And although they succeeded in saving the planet, Bill was never the same.

Yet they succeeded; the intergalactic fiends were driven back, their leader smashed into dust.

They were treated as heroes once they were planet-side again, but it was a hollow victory

The bioweapon was unstoppable; it couldn't be contained any longer, and it continued its path of destruction.

The numerous world government's collapsed, and there was no end to the sickness in sight.

So, Bill left his group of battle-born companions and threw himself into oblivion, leaving his fate to the forces that be.

. . . . .

Yet somehow, through it all, Bill had survived.

He chalked it up to sheer dumb luck.

He was lucky that he was miraculously immune to the disease.

He was lucky he had survived the war.

He was lucky to survive the pit the had thrown himself in to.

He was just lucky.

The same could not be said for young Maria.

As he examined the child, he knew immediately that there was no hope for her. The sickness had already dug itself in deep, the crystals forming through her skin, sparkling in the dimly-lit shed.

When she saw him, she rushed towards him teeth bared, ready to sink into his flesh. Allen, however, had chained her to a cement pole in the ground, the rusty links of metal snapping her back, the only thing keeping Bill from having his throat torn out.

When the child found that she could not reach her prey, she began to howl, swiping her elongated claws at him through the space of air.

Behind him, Bill heard Allen begin to sob harshly, his cries of anguish barely registering above Maria's bestial screams.

He knew it was now or never.

Dropping his cigarette and grinding it into the dirt floor, Bill began to recite a simple prayer aloud, one he used specifically for these types of circumstances.

"Cursed be the ground for our sake…" He began, Allen's sobs behind hid reaching a crescendo.

He removed his Tool from his belt.

"Both thorns and thistles it shall bring forth for us…"

Maria's efforts to reach him became more desperate, the heavy chain now struggling to keep her back.

"For out of the ground we are taken, for the dust we are…."

He raised his right hand, lining up the crosshairs of his Tool with the former little girl's head.

"And to the dust we shall return."

He crossed himself with his left hand, and pulled the trigger.

. . . . .

Later that evening, as Bill sat at his desk nursing a glass of amber liquid, he grew introspective over his 'profession'.

The funeral for Maria wouldn't be held for several days; the body needed to be properly cremated, as to avoid any unnecessary infection. Allen and his family were in mourning, but they were grateful for the task Bill had performed.

A parent shouldn't have to put down their child, after all.

Such was the life of a Priest; they were there to perform the duties that others couldn't bring themselves carry out.

It was heavy burden to bear.

But somebody had to do it.

And this wasn't his first execution.

Sighing, Bill downed the remainder of his glass, the pleasant burning sensation covering his mouth and lips. Returning the glass to its position on the desk, he opened the middle drawer and withdrew his pistol, placing it back into its box. It had been with him through it all, and it was the closest thing he had to family left in this world.

Before closing drawer, Bill's eye was caught by a small, rectangular piece of paper, barely wider than his palm. It was yellow with age and folding at the edges, and something that Bill had carried with him since the Great Collapse.

It was a picture of seven individuals, all crowded around one another in joyous celebration, smiles plastered on each face. The photo had been taken once they landed back on Earth, before they discovered that the Geode Plague was incurable.

He smiled melancholically at the thought.

He wondered where they all were now, if any had survived after all these years. He had heard rumors, of course, but that's all they were; rumors.

He gently sild the picture back into the drawer, closing it gently. He got up and poured himself another drink, moving towards the window and staring out at the stars.

That life was over; he had other responsibilities to focus on now.

. . . . . .

A lone figure stood above the small town, it's lights a beacon in the perpetually dark world it now resided in.

She knew this had to be the place; if the rumors were anything to go by, then this is surely where she would find him.

Readjusting the sword strapped to her back, the young, short haired women began to make her way towards the bright settlement.

Their job wasn't finished, and the whole team was required to fight the coming storm.


	2. An Unexpected Reunion

A/N: As always, feedback is appreciated.

. . . . .

Moriarty's Saloon was the only place along the Rocky Mountains were an individual could purchase a cold, stiff drink.

While only in operation for several years, the saloon proved to be a major success; it's reputation as the only place for a quality drink attracted customers from as far Las Vegas. The citizens of Harbor were wary of the establishment and its clientele at first, but as more and more people flocked to the settlement, the larger it became, bringing in raw material and resources many hadn't seen in years.

Because of this, many began to quiet their objections; as long as they were well fed and comfortable, they could deal with a few rowdy outsiders.

Erwin Moriarty, the business's proprietor, became a well-respected and upstanding member in the community, utilizing his success to further improve the town and the lives of its citizens. He managed to secure relationships with some very powerful people in the south, and as such was able to expand Harbor's trade opportunities.

Still, even with his position in power, Moriarty manned the bar every day, barely taking time away from it. He relished in the work, preferring to carry out his work directly, rather than outsource.

He saw individuals from all walks of life stop in to purchase his fine spirits: farmers, traders, mercenaries, it didn't matter, all were welcome at Moriarty's.

However, he had never before seen an individual quite like the women who had just tossed some young, arrogant merc out his front window.

The young kid had sauntered up to her as she found a seat at the bar and ordered a drink; whiskey, straight. He opened up with some one-liner about whether or not she frequented the place often. He asked if she would like to join him and his friends at her table, which she politely declined.

Apparently, the kid didn't get the message, and somewhere in the mix of trying to persuade her into drinking with his compatriots and trying not to drunkenly spill his drink his drink did he decide to grab a handful of her rear-end.

She didn't take too kindly to that.

Standing up, she forcefully grabbed the offending appendage, stepped into his body, threw it over her shoulder, and casually launched him out the adjacent window.

'Christ, that's gonna cost me.' Moriarty thought to himself.

Moving his attention from his shattered window, he finally had a decent view of the women before him.

She stood at about six one, about one hundred and twenty pounds from the look of her. With brown-skin, short-cropped hair, and a lithe yet toned frame, the girl couldn't have been more than, eighteen, nineteen years old. She had a scar that crossed the bridge of her nose at an angle, and caramel brown eyes that were laden with history.

Her clothes were simple; adorning her figure was a drab olive cloak, that covered a fitting tan top, followed by black cargo pants and old, worn-out combat boots. A bandolier was slung around her waist, with an old revolver and hunting knife strapped to her sides. On her hands were black, fingerless gloves, which were now resting on the hilt of her pistol.

All in all, she looked like anybody else; a common waster just trying to get a drink.

It was what she carried on her back that caught his attention.

Tied across her shoulders was a sword.

Sure, Moriarty had seen swords before; guns weren't so easy to come by nowadays, and many people had resorted to bladed weapons for protection.

But nothing like this.

Because it just wasn't any sword.

It was _the_ sword.

The one used to save the planet.

Moriarty had seen the television broadcasts before everything had gone dark, just like anybody else. After all, who wouldn't want to catch a glimpse of the heroes who had managed to defeat an entire alien empire?

It was sheathed inside a large, pink scabbard, that practically glimmered in the sun-light room. Its handle was of ornately carved metal, simple, yet absolutely stunning. Adorning its pommel was a single, yet unmistakable rose.

There was no denying it; he was absolutely positive he knew who this sword belonged too.

And now she was about to be thrown into a one on seven fight.

"You got a fuckin' death wish, girl?"

The words tore Moriarty's gaze away from the sword, refocusing on the large, burly man they had come from. The leader of the incapacitated fellow outside, no doubt.

"Tell your friend to keep his goddamn hands to himself." The women replied, shifting herself to meet the hardened stares of the men in front of her. "Same goes for the rest of you shits."

"You got some nerve, cunt." He replied, "Looks like I'm gonna have to beat some fuckin' manners into you."

The woman let out a small laugh, one hand resting on her pistol, the other reaching back and resting on the handle of her sword.

The group of mercenary's, in response, leveled their rifles at her.

Moriarty let loose a string of curses, and quickly pushed the button underneath the counter.

Better to just let Bill handle this.

He was always the perfect mediator for these types of situations.

. . . . .

Bill absolutely loathed when Moriarty called on him to sort out these types of situations.

Sure, in the bar's infancy, it was essential to enforce a sense of civility and order in the place, especially since it was the only one of its kind this far west. In those days, Bill had gladly come down to sort out drunken brawls and send belligerents on their merry way.

But a Priest had the tendency to deter most anyone looking to cause trouble, and as time passed, the occurrence of these situations had decreased, as did Bill's desire to continue playing bouncer.

Now, it was just another chore on his never-ending list of duties.

Still though, he always received a free drink for his services.

And in Bill's opinion, only a complete moron would turn that down.

Turning down the street where the bar was located, Bill could see a lump crumpled in front of the saloon, shards of glass twinkling around it in the afternoon sun. As he drew closer, the lump turned into a groaning, half-conscious young man.

"Fucking Christ." He mumbled.

He knelt down next to the incapacitated mercenary, fingers pressed against his neck in search of a pulse. It was faint, but fortunately, the kid would live. Unfortunately, however, he'd have one hell of a headache.

The sound of shouting and pained grunts emanating from the saloon drew Bill's attention away from the lad, head snapping to the entrance as another patron was forcefully ejected into the street. The man landed with a dull thud, curling into himself as pained gasps escaped his empty lungs.

It was then that point that Bill noticed the guy was missing an arm.

Bill shot to his feet, quickly striding up the steps and burst through the swinging doors. The first thing that hit him was the stench; the place reeked of puke and shit and blood, all coalescing into one thick miasma. Bill had to fight down the bile rising in his throat, quickly putting a hand to his mouth in an effort to cover the oppressive stench.

Apparently, the altercation in the bar hard turned for the worst; Bill managed to count five dead, most missing limbs, a few missing heads. To make things worse, almost every single one had managed to empty their bowels before expiring.

Tearing his eyes away from the carnage around him, Bill looked towards the bar, eye's meeting Moriarty's, who had casually taken up the various glasses littered around him.

"M, what the actual holy fuck?" He spoke, arms raised in question. Moriarty simply shrugged, and gestured to the figure sitting in front of him.

"Might wanna ask her, Bill." He returned as he moved to begin cleaning up the saloon.

Bill's attention turned towards the lone women sitting at the bar. She sat facing away from him, nursing a glass of whiskey in her hand, but one look at the weapon strapped to her frame told him everything he needed to know.

His mind ground to a halt.

It was like seeing a ghost.

When was the last time he'd seen her? Five, six years ago? He vaguely remembered encountering her at some point near the ruins of Chicago, but he later chalked it up to a drug-induced hallucination.

She'd grown into a powerful woman in that time, it seemed.

He sighed, fishing a cigarette out of his coat pocket and deciding, reluctantly, to move to the bar. He pulled out the barstool next to her and sat down, reaching across the counter for a glass, and grabbing the bottle of whiskey that sat in front of her.

Pouring himself a shot, he downed the burning liquid in one gulp, and proceeded to pour another.

"Never thought I'd find you in a place like this." The women spoke up, eyes appraising the tumbler in her hand.

Knocking back his second shot, Bill winced as the liquor took its sweet time descending into his gut.

"Me neither." He replied, taking the lighter from his breast pocket and touching the cigarette to its flame. He inhaled sharply, letting the smoke fill his lungs before expelling it out the side of his mouth.

"How'd you find me?" he questioned, flicking the ashes onto the floor. "I thought you were back east."

The women chuckled, placing the glass on the counter and resting her elbows on the edges.

"Rumor has it that the last Priest has been meticulous in his protection of a small town in the Rockies. In fact, he's doing his job so well, that even the Acolytes won't come anywhere near it."

Bill scoffed, taking another drag. "Christ, those zealots won't come near a place if so much as a child with a stick threatened them." The women smirked, reaching for the bottle and pouring herself another drink.

"They've grown bolder since last you saw them, actually grew some balls. Taken to raiding settlements and burning them to the ground."

A frown crossed Bill's face, snuffing out the embers of his smoke into the countertop.

"Why are you here, Connie?" He asked, not wanting to beat around the bush any longer.

Connie smiled, nursing her drink in her hands. "You always were a straight shooter, Bill." She responded. "Never one for needless bullshit."

Bill turned in his seat to face her, struggling to keep his composure. "Look, as thrilled as I am to see you again, I'm just a little concerned as to your intentions for tracking me down." He fired out. "We all separated for a reason, Connie, and I tried my damnedest to make sure I wouldn't be found."

He snatched the bottle from her and took a long swig, wiping the excess liquid from his lips as he pulled away. "Now start talking."

Connie took a sip of her drink before returning it to its place on the countertop, turning to face Bill and meeting his gaze full on.

"I wouldn't have come to you if the situation wasn't dire." She began. "I, out of all of them, understand how much you need to be left alone. But at this point, I'm out of options, and you're the only one left that I can turn to."

She glanced at the wall, voice lowering an octave.

"Things are getting worse back east Bill, worse than you can ever imagine. There are things happening that you wouldn't believe, and the others have ignored my pleas for help." She looked back to him. "You're the last chance I have to figure out what's going on."

Bill sat with eyes fixed on the floor, soaking in her words. What the hell was she talking about? The last time he heard of anything terrible happening in the east were the Slavers traipsing up and down the coast, but that had been months ago.

Now that he thought about it though, that was the last news he'd heard about anything from the east at all.

Something wasn't right.

"What about Steven?" He asked. "Why couldn't you ask him for help?"

Connie's face fell, a solemn look adorning her features.

"That's another thing." She began, and Bill felt a pit form in his stomach.

Something was deeply, terribly wrong.

"Steven's gone missing."

. . . . .

Bit shorter than planned, but I needed to get the plot rolling. Finished with school for the semester so I should get a lot more writing done!

Au Revoir.


	3. Decisions Decisions

A/N: As always, feedback is appreciated!

 _. . . . ._

" _You are alone, child."_

 _Bill raised himself to his knees on the cold metal floor, blood spilling out of the open gash on his side. He pushed his battered hand against it, desperately applying pressure in an effort slow the flow of fluid._

 _He suddenly began to feel heavy; the room was starting to spin._

" _There is only darkness for you, and only death for your people." The voice continued to speak. "We will sail to a billion worlds; we will sail until every light is extinguished."_

 _He tore his eyes away from his wound and settled them on the stark white being in front of him, Sam beating wildly at her arm as she gripped his throat. The alien Empress chuckled slightly at his efforts, further tightening her hold._

 _Sam stopped, eyes darting to meet Bills as he labored to fill his deprived lungs._

 _A look passed between the two._

 _A look only brothers could understand._

 _The Diamond turned her attention towards the dying man in front of her, leveling her gaze at him._

" _You are strong child, but I am beyond strength."_

 _In a blur, she raised Sam above her head, both hands gripping his torso._

" _I am the end."_

 _She tightened her grip and pulled her arms away from each other, tearing him apart like wet tissue paper._

" _And you are finished."_

 _Bill watched as she flung aside the two halves of his little brother, only then realizing the screams that filled his ears hearing were emanating from himself..._

 _. . . . . ._

A torrent of vomit gushed out of Bill's mouth and into the grimy, porcelain bowl he was currently wrapped around. He had found himself in this predicament many times before; in most cases, it was the simple matter of the overindulgence of too much alcohol.

Then, there were the not so common instances; the reoccurring and all too vivid nightmares of his time in the war.

He'd found that he'd much rather prefer the former.

After surviving the rigorous trials of becoming a Priest, Bill found that he'd dreamt less and less, and as of late, he'd had no dreams whatsoever that he could recall.

He figured he had distance and time to thank for that.

But now that he had reunited with Connie, all those repressed memories had been forcefully drug back to the surface.

And he was wholly unprepared to deal with them.

Another convulsion originated from his stomach, causing him to heave forward. A thin dribble of spit fell from his lips, which he callously wiped away, falling back against the wall next to him.

He ran a hand across his scalp, the tiny fibers of growing hair tickling his calloused hand. Sighing, he reached over and flushed the bile down, grabbing a rag from a nearby bucket and wiping around the rim of the bowl.

Standing, he made his way out of the bathroom and moved towards his desk, still somewhat shaken from his bodily expulsion.

Plopping himself down on his chair, he grabbed a glass and the pitcher of water perched on the standing tray to his left.

Pouring himself a half cup of the cool, clear liquid, Bill desperately swallowed it down, proceeding to refill the glass to the brim and downing it just as quickly.

He thought he was passed all this, the nightmares, the flashbacks.

He refilled his glass for the third time.

He was fairly certain they weren't still supposed to be this _vivid._

Leaning back into his seat, Bill let loose a drawn out sigh, swirling the chilled liquid in his hand. He then raised it against his head, relishing in the feeling of condensation running down his flushed face.

As he sat there, in the sweltering, stuffy room, he began to ponder the peculiar situation he now found himself in.

Steven was missing, without a trace it seemed. One day he was there, and the next, poof, gone, vanished.

Connie hadn't truly interacted with him for some time, it seemed. Her only continuing relationship with him was strictly professional, partnering up only when necessity called for it. He would radio her, she would meet him, they would complete the job, and then go their separate ways.

Their old team had truly disintegrated, it seemed, with Steven and Connie just barely interacting with each other.

Bill closed his eyes, and thought back to their conversation earlier in the day.

. . . . . .

 _After paying Moriarty for the damage done to his saloon, and offering quick apology for not helping clean up the mess, to which the said man just grumbled at, Bill and Connie made their way towards Bill_ _'_ _s office._

 _They kept silent on the walk over, reaching the door to the steps and opening it; Bill stepping aside to allow Connie to head up in front of him. He strode inside the entryway, glanced at the empty street behind him, and shut and locked the door, quickly moving up the stairs._

 _Reaching his office, he found that Connie had already seated herself in the chair in front of his desk, legs crossed and arms lazily lounging on the arms. He sauntered over to the decanter situated on his desk, filling two glasses with the amber liquid._

 _Connie raised an eyebrow at him._

" _How many is that today?_ _"_ _she queried, a small smile forming as she gingerly took the glass he offered her._ _"_ _Three? Four?_ _"_

 _Bill let out a small chuckle, taking a quick sip from the glass. "Five, actually." He replied. "Had two before some drifter made a mess of the bar downtown, messy affair, I'll spare you the details." He joked._

 _Connie let out a laugh, one that resonated throughout the small room. Bill smiled, leaning against the front of his desk, hands cradling his glass. He swirled it in his hand, watching it intently as silence settled over the two of them._

" _Give to me straight Connie," he began, "What's going on?"_

 _She let out a breath as she rubbed the side of her face, eyes gazing out the window behind him._

" _I went back to the temple about three months ago, needed somewhere relatively safe after a run in I had with a group of Acolytes." Her eyes moved to meet Bill's gaze as she continued. "The safe house's I established were either burned by those fucking fanatics, occupied by some lunatic drifter, or overrun with infected."_

 _She stopped rubbing her face, hand falling into her lap._

" _I was out of options really, and regardless of mine and Steven's relationship, I knew he'd never deny me sanctuary." She half-heartedly laughed. "I really dreaded asking him to stay."_

 _Bill only nodded, eyes settling on the floor as he let her continue._

" _So I get to Beach City, the entire town's abandoned by the way, and make my way to the temple. He'd apparently taken his safety seriously, because he'd erected fortifications around the beach; no kidding Bill, the whole damn place looked like the fucking Maginot Line."_

 _Bill laughed, imagining the effort the kid put into keeping things out._

 _Connie paused, then resumed._

" _Somehow, I managed to weave my way through the thousands of feet of pitfalls, fence, and barbed wire, and I get up the stairs to find the whole front of the house has been smashed in"_

 _Bill's smile fell._

" _I walked in, sword drawn, expecting the absolute worst." She paused, a far-away look filling her gaze. "What I found was wholly different."_

 _She looked back at Bill, staring intently into his eyes._

" _Gem shards. Thousands of them littered the floor. No bodies, so I know they weren't infected. They were Gems for sure."_

 _Bill only nodded. He remembered hearing reports of surviving Gems from the invasion still stranded on the planet, but he himself had never seen any._

 _He was surprised they went after Steven of all people, maybe they didn't know?_

" _So I look around the house, and find no trace of him. So I look over to the temple door and that's when I see it."_

 _She gestures to the sword next to her._

" _It was just lying there, by the warp pad, which had been smashed to pieces." She grabbed the sword and placed it on her lap, rubbing her hand across the sheathe._

" _I left then, and haven't been back since."_

 _Bill ran his hand across his hand, sighing. "You didn't wait around? See if he came back?"_

 _Connie shot him a look._

" _Of course I did Bill, held up in the Big Donut for a few days; he never showed up." She stopped rubbing the sheath. "I searched for months, Bill; Beach city, both Kindergartens, Rose's Armory, all of them produce the same results."_

 _She reached for her glass, which she had perched on Bill's desk, and took a sip._

" _No Steven."_

 _Bill drank the rest of his whiskey, and placed the glass to the side._

" _And you couldn't ask the Gems for help? Why come to me? They're obviously better suited to help you out." He offered_

 _Connie closed her eyes and smiled._

" _I sent out a distress signal from the temple, none of them sent confirmation they had received it."_

 _She opened her eyes and looked at him._

" _I have the barest idea of where they all are, and if I'm right, I know I can't reach them alone. It was only by chance that I heard about you in some trader stop in The Pitt, like I said, you've quite the reputation." She gave him a pleading look._

" _You're my last chance, and if the rest of the Gems won't listen to me, they'll certainly listen to you."_

 _Bill frowned._

" _I have a life here, Connie; responsibilities that I have to upkeep for these people. I can't just go on some wild goose chase over someone who we don't even know is still alive."_

 _He looked at her, noticing how a worried looked had marred her face._

" _Shit, look I didn't-…It wasn't supposed-…" he sighed. "Ah, fuck Connie…"_

 _She nodded, a solemn look replacing the one of fear._

" _I understand, it was absurd of me to expect to just abandon your life here and help me on a run across the country."_

 _Standing up, she slung the sword across her back, and made her way towards the door. Before stepping out, she looked back at him._

" _If you do change your mind, meet me at the saloon around dawn. If not, then it was good seeing you again Bill." She offered him a small smile. "I'm sorry things turned out this way."_

 _And with that, she was gone, leaving Bill standing alone in his office._

 _. . . . . ._

"Fuck!' Bill yelled as he flung the empty glass of water across the room.

He had left that world behind him somehow managing to return himself into the arms of sanity and control. He had worked so hard to leave everything he had been through behind him, managing to build himself back up from the ashes of his old life.

And now, it seemed, he was being dragged back.

He leaned back into his chair, rubbing his eyes.

Through the varied array of thoughts that were swirling around his head, he remembered advice that Father William had given to him during his Priest training.

"No matter how hard you try, you cannot run from the ghosts of your past; sooner or later, you must to face them, or face destruction."

The old man certainly had a flair for the dramatics.

Bill opened his desk drawer, and withdrew the photo of the old team, and stared at it.

Sam's smile was still as bright as he remembered.

"What the hell am I doing…" He whispered.

. . . . .

Connie sat at the bar, occasionally checking her watch.

It seemed he Bill had made his choice.

She placed a few silver coins on the countertop, thanked Moriarty for hospitality, and stepped outside, inhaling deeply before setting off down the street.

She would go to New Vegas first, surly the purple gem would be the easiest to recruit.

She reached the gate to the town, offering a nod to the sentries who opened it for her. She waited for it to raise fully before stepping out onto the cracked roadway, pulling out her map to determine the quickest way to the inter-

"You're late." A voice spoke up to her right.

She let out a chuckle.

'Thought I told you to meet me at Moriarty's?" she returned.

Bill snorted.

Moving from his place against the town wall, he walked up to Connie, pack slung over his shoulder and pistol in its holster. His duster barely brushed against the ground and the sun was shielded by the wide brimmed hat atop his head.

"I stopped in this morning, but you weren't there yet, so I decided to wait out here. Surprise you."

Connie laughed as they began to trek towards the old interstate, falling in step next to each other as they walked.

"Where we off too first?" he asked.

"New Vegas." She replied.

"Ah," he returned, "The ol' Purple Puma the first on our list?" Connie nodded. "She'll be the easiest to convince, she'd give her life to save Steven." Bill chuckled. "Wouldn't we all?"

They fell into a comfortable silence as they walked, a small smile still adorning Connie's face.

"You look like a cowboy." She casually mentioned.

"Yeehaw, pardner." Bill replied back.

Connie laughed.

Maybe they had a chance after all.

. . . . .

A/n: Exposition is a bitch, but it needs to be done. Next chapter will be much more fast paced, I assure you.

Au revoir.


End file.
